Wayward Son

Chapter15

Sam splashed coffee over the rim of his cup while he poured, then aggressively peeled a banana. When he woke up, Dean and the Impala had already gone. No note. And Ruthie hadn't returned.

So, he ate breakfast alone in a silent motel room. He had no idea whether Dean was working the case or not, and Sam was still too pissed off to call him. The way he'd just sat there as Ruthie packed up and left...and the way he'd tried to justify it. Sam paused with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Maybe losing Lisa and Ben had damaged Dean even worse than he'd suspected. Maybe Dean really had determined never to let himself get that close to anyone again. Why else would he have pushed Ruthie away?

Sam still didn't know what Dean had done. Ruthie hadn't told him. He'd followed her outside, asked her what had happened.

She stared across the parking lot, her eyes red in the harsh electric light of the street lamps. She swallowed, then spoke in a low, raspy voice. "He wants me to go."

"But what happened?"

She shook her head. "I don't know." Even as she said it, her eyes filled, her shoulders curled in.

"But you know something. What is it? Please, let me help."

Her mouth tightened. She spun toward him, expression fierce, sparks shooting from her eyes. "Remember that time when he thought I betrayed you, and then almost slit my throat?" Acid dripped from each word.

Sam flinched, and waited. Obviously, it was a rhetorical question.

The blaze in her eyes died as quickly as it had ignited, doused by the fresh tears now glistening there. Something in her face splintered. "This is worse," she whispered. She turned away.

This was worse? Good God. What had Dean done?

"Ruthie, please. Where will you go?"

"I've got a ride."

Sam stepped toward her. "I don't want you to go. Doesn't that mean anything?"

She tightened her grip on her bag. She didn't look at him, but her voice wavered. "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam squinted as a pair of bright headlights illuminated the two of them. A little BMW pulled up to the curb.

She still looked straight ahead. She spoke once more, her tone strained and brittle. "I wish we'd never come here."

The trunk popped open, then the driver's door opened. A handsome, dark-haired man got out and gave Sam an awkward wave. Ruthie hesitated for an instant, then stepped off the curb in a rush, as though she'd had to summon her courage to do it. As though she were jumping off a cliff. The man met her at the back of the car, took her bag, and put it in the trunk. She muttered a "thank you," and glanced at Sam once more as she ducked into the passenger seat. Her chin trembled.

He couldn't see her face through the tinted windows as they drove away.

* * * * *

Amy hadn't responded when Ruthie texted her from the bathroom. Might have had something to do with Ruthie pointing a gun at her the last time they saw each other. She'd reached out to Mike in desperation—and because she hoped it would hurt Dean, like he'd hurt her. Make him regret what he'd done. Make him jealous.

But that was stupid. He'd made it perfectly clear how he felt about her.

Now, riding in silence next to Mike, she cursed her rash decision. She'd only asked if she could crash for one night, but every block they drove, her anxiety mounted. A video clip of the last time she'd been at his apartment played on repeat in her head: the door opening, Ruthie grinning in anticipation of surprising Mike. Monica standing there in his t-shirt.